The Happy Wanderer

Does silence speak? Does she command your attention. Does she demand of you, "Listen, if you want to be heard." And yet we cannot deny that she has a voice. A voice singing all day, longing for some attentive listener, That poignant voice, untouched, unfazed,  That has wept, chuckled, smiled, In such angelic solitude as not to be solicited by all, A voice so rare, it escapes notice, Except to be called,  The Sound of Silence. A voice that belongs to an earnest chatterbox, Which is so alien to us that it does not elicit attention. A voice that can carry us to distant places, Distant by means but not by fancy, Can we fish out our gadgets and tune into her frequency? Can we train ourselves to discover what may surface once We have cajoled that godly modesty? Yes, it's possible, but what can she have to say? What is it one feels when silence speaks? What is it one hears when she beckons? What is it one has to don to hear her? Her voice ...

Give me the perfect birthday gift, That I can unravel in solace, The morning after you have departed, Without the slightest trace. The wrapping-paper bright as a gemstone, The ribbon smooth as velvet-silk, The address complete and sweet as ever, And not a mere cursory word to my ilk. The insides cushioned with foam, The gift betokened in a box. The box of cardboard, wood, or marble, Each a notch better, but stay away from glass. So I take my cutter, seize my scissors, Place the address under a paper-weight, Gently unwrap your efforts with an effort, To equal your ablutions great. As the cutter gently penetrates the seams and tapes, I feel my curiosity surging, my heart pounding, And la! There's the brown cardboard box, Neatly sealed to prolong my hopes, hold my dreams aloft. Then I gently cut through the packaging, preserving every piece, Discover a bubble-wrap but let the inevitable temptation abate, Rub my hands, pat myself over my recent handiwork, A...

Embarrassments, Are inevitable; they bring out the joy in dignity, The pride in stoicism, the charity of clarity. So let us pick moments, That confer this indefatigable joy on us, And dwell on them with much primness. We don't want to create another such moment. Rule Number 1: Embarrass yourself, if You have to,someone. Let people talk about you in any strain, Let them cast on your character any refrain. While you eavesdrop silently, gulping down anger, Rather than reappearing valiantly to embarrass the stranger. Rule Number 2: Let them praise you, duly and unduly; When unduly, keep denying the praise, When duly, also, keep denying the praise, The second seals the bargain, it's the cream on the cake. Smile, blush, assent at the end, It will severe rather than make amends. Rule Number 3: When you intend to praise someone, Just stop short at the most ill-timed moment, and Temper your compliment into a casual remark, Smooth and cool as the Niagara Falls! ...

My hands were trembling, My lips quivering, My eyebrows twitching, My eyelids flitting. I felt the basketball push against my palms, And slither down the court. I felt my dialogues dance over my lips, And then run riot. I felt my brain ambush the answers, But the answers seized my brain. I felt a bold rush of assertion, Which diminished in my veins. I felt so much that words were unjust to my emotions. I felt guilt purge my stead, anger stall my gait, Embarrassment fish out the bait, Panic moisten my skin, regret dampen it cold. I felt uncomfortable being myself, I felt the need to metamorphose. I dreamed the dream of molting a new leaf Over all my shortcomings. I cursed myself, I may have cried, But then I took myself to court over that outburst. Who's the prosecutor, who's the defendant? Who's the whipper and who's the snap back-er? Who's waging the attack and who plans to bounce back? Are there two, or does one do both? Because I felt ...

I am ‘Stereo-Type’. And that’s where I begin Living up to my name. I am the type that runs in stereo. Until someone finds another friend of mine. Who, by accident and coincidence, Happens to go by the same name. What is it when you know that your picture, The picture that descends in display to the world. Hides behind your masterpiece, An understatement hoping to be unfurled. It’s ME. You tell the world, through words and all else, All that you aspire to make the world believe. You create me, You nurture me. You repeat the refrain, and I grow vain, You make the clamoring millions see me. But it’s nature’s command, that only thou shall see, Right through all your make-believe. You play my card through and through, By going on being what you think the world approves... Oh! I feel used! But I thrive on it, Yes, I thrive on it. I am your public face, Your ambient masquerade. How powerful you are through me! And yet as powerle...

Who is that young maiden, Whose face I see plain, Washed and touched and dimpled, By the summer rain. Whose hand is it that extends, To catch a sampling of the Sun, But ends up instead with little rainbows, Trapped and caught to stun? Whose eyes are those which twinkle, Like little stars in a sand-clock old, Wings of the whole world’s sorrows, Bells of bronze and gold. Who is the young dainty lady, Who can carry a smile so bold, When grief is being pelted at the dimples, That the summer rain beholds.

Joy is free, To roam the gardens, trespass on grounds, And have a jolly good time. We complete the picture, and it glistens with the touch of joy, That each jigsaw piece lends it. Joy is unflavored, not ornamented by some chemical and medicinal remedies. Raw is the joy that is born of several fixtures that just need to be there. And so it shines in its own purity. Joy is when I bite my tongue in worry about how long you've been downstairs, Only to have you plunge indoors with an apology written all over your face. Joy is when I can reprimand you and thank God for you at the same time, Joy is when you pester me with your demands, when you whine and dissent, And I either concede, or stay rigid, unwavering, For joy is both, as joy is just you. It is all the many reminders that you're around, happy or wistful. You flinch at my errors, you laugh at all I don't know, And I thwart any upper-handedness by playing bad-cop. How lucky am I to turn...

We exchanged our poems, Which had been penned, scratched and blotted On single-lined notebook paper. I gave mine, she handed hers over, I smiled, she did too. Then we turned our backs to each other, Sunken in the glory of the words Of another. Nodding, in appraisal and beaming in pleasure, Perusing over some words and etching others in memory.  Marveling at the theme, visualizing the setting, Approving of the many characters, nodding at a monologue, Laughing if the effect was comical, brooding if airs were wistful, Then turning to face each other, running this play of emotions Through a single expression plain to decipher. Then a nod, which exclaimed, "How well we do understand each other!" Slightly ruffled, turning away with grace, Only to gnash our incisors in chagrin. I'm thinking, "Oh, how good is this poem, how well does she write!! It'll earn her worldwide acclaim." And then, "She must have found my piece ...

"How much further are you going tuck yourself into the shawl, Sammy?" A pause. The whoosh and wailing of the winds that roamed so often in the dusk. Then a muted reply, "As far as I can go for the shawl to take my original place." The voice was soft, trembling in the tormenting gales of winter, but firm. Oh, steely firm. And I knew that smile. That mischievous smile that had been blanketed by the chap's own strong will. I couldn't see it then, but I knew it was dancing away at its own will without an audience. "So what's the plan? Going to shirk all week long? Going to hide like a frightened mouse till the coast is clear?" "That is the plan." I heard a faint tremor of excitement in his voice. The fireflies chirped and I started. Normally, I would simply have said, "Well, I leave you to your own gloom', but there was something in his tone of voice that made me sit up bold upright, and inquire, "Tell me all about i...

Peacefully the world lumbers Dreams en-castled in its toils, Like a fortress under siege, Quivering, galloping, surviving The harsh torments of weather and grain. Which knight is to know the dreams nestling In hearts that confound themselves whenever a leap Is made for the aspirations that they shelter. Are they not quenched, drop by drop, by those reprimands? No, they are not, and no knight, soldier or warrior is to know. For the perspiring hands brave themselves through all else Their fingers burnt under the light of their own ambitions, Their hearts bled till completely parched. Their faces blackened by the soot that has no bearing On their aspirations. Are we not like these brave-hearts under siege? How many times have we marveled at prominent personalities? Our attempts to emulate them embroiled with their own Share of triumphs, bittersweet like chocolate, Follies, tangy like the best oranges. Disappointments, sour like the most acerbic line of a teacher, ...